


Nameless, Faceless

by pied_pollo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst and Fluff, Gen, Mental Illness, Not Canon Compliant, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: 5 people who called Malcolm a psychopath (and one who didn’t—at least, not really.)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	Nameless, Faceless

_**1.** _

Malcolm tried not to let it get under his skin—it had been twenty years since the arrest, and he was here, at the NYPD, looking for a fresh start—but almost immediately, he knew his past would take some getting used to, especially for JT.

JT, who said the words constantly.

Unlike the others, he was never outright about it; dropping snide comments and ogling to himself— _chip off the old block, lost his marbles, batshit insane, like his pops_ —and Malcolm told himself he could handle it. He _could_ handle it—there were worse people, worse names—and he _did_ handle it.

More-or-less.

“Man, you’re psycho.”

Malcolm glanced to where JT was staring at his stack of notebooks, all half-filled, all scribbled with profiles and textbook excerpts and case information on both consult and Surgeon files. “Why are you reading those?” he asked.

“Curious,” JT replied, turning the page of one and whistling. “These people gotta be pretty messed up to think like this, huh?”

“Yep,” Malcolm replied through gritted teeth. He braced himself for the inevitable quip.

“Guess that’s why it’s so easy—” JT started to say, as if on cue, but before he could finish his sentence, Malcolm jerked out of his chair and swiped the stack of books from his desk before skulking away with his shoes slapping against the floor and his hands tight against either side of his head.

JT stopped most of the remarks after that.

**_2._ **

He should have stayed at home.

Malcolm woke up feeling terrible, and the fact that he had to stand and watch Gil secure the crime scene for two hours before he could take a closer look really didn’t help matters at all. He didn’t have a thermometer at home, but if the malaise, chills, and heat flashes were anything to go by, Malcolm could tell he had the flu.

“You look terrible,” Dani remarked, standing next to him.

Malcolm wrapped his arms tighter around his chest and cleared his throat. “I’m not contagious.” At least, he didn’t think so. “It’s fine.”

“Why didn’t you stay home?”

“I wanted to see the body myself.” _I can’t stay at home alone for extended periods of time because I might go insane,_ he wanted to say, but Dani didn’t need to know that. “What’ve we got?”

Before Dani could reply, Gil waved them over. “Rhonda Harris, age thirty,” he explained, standing to the side. Malcolm put his hands on his knees and swallowed against the nausea rising in his throat. “What do you think?”

What did he think? It was kind of hard to think at the moment, and Malcolm stumbled slightly as a bout of dizziness nearly knocked him backwards. “I think...this is strange.”

“Decapitation tends to be,” Gil replied, brow furrowed. “You feel okay?” Malcolm turned his head to the side and gagged. “Okay, maybe not. You should be home, Bright.”

Malcolm just continued to retch on air, and when he lifted his head, Gil’s mouth was gushing blood. 

Two seconds later, Dani found herself in the familiar situation of being tackled to the ground by a screaming, flailing consultant.

She wasn’t the only one who called him crazy that night, Malcolm was sure.

_**3.** _

She didn’t say it—at least, not out loud—but her microexpressions spoke hidden thoughts better than words ever could. 

In that moment, Malcolm solidified that specific face in his memory: eyes, downcast with alcohol but unable to hide the glitter underneath; mouth, pinched and tight-lipped, retaining saliva; eyebrows arched downwards, furrowed together like bunching storm clouds. The corners of her skin, resting on either side of her lips, her eyes, were crinkled and holding back tension, and she kept her hands hidden, but the rustling of her skirt told Malcolm she was wringing them anxiously behind her back.

He felt her watching him, and he looked up with lax features and watchful eyes, keeping his hands still, careful not to jostle the bundle in his arms.

Jessica didn’t have to speak for Malcolm to know her voice would shake. “What are you doing with that kitten?”

Malcolm glanced down at the gray ball tucked with its head resting on his elbow. He had found it, cold and shaky in the bushes just a few feet from where he had been perched on the front steps, reading, and he tried to tell her so, but nothing seemed to come out of his mouth.

Jessica’s heels were sharp on the stone porch. “Give it to me,” she ordered, quietly but firmly, and to Malcolm’s surprise, the cat was smoothly taken from his arms. It squeaked in protest, swinging in Jessica’s uneasy hold, and before Malcolm could show her how to cradle it properly, they were gone.

That night, he picked up a book of his father’s and read about the Macdonald Triad. He didn’t hold another animal for nineteen years.

**_4._ **

A quick glance at the clock confirmed that it had been four hours since Malcolm and Ainsley had started studying, but now, the latter was doing anything but that. Malcolm closed his textbook with a sigh and folded his hands on top of it, waiting for his sister to look up from her phone.

“How much have you gotten done?” he asked, for the third time that night. “Ains?”

Ainsley’s eyes flicked up to glare at him. “Why are you bothering me?”

“It’s eleven,” Malcolm pointed out. “You’ve been on the same page for an hour, and I know that test is in two days. How much of the study guide have you completed?”

“None of your business,” Ainsley huffed, placing her phone to the side. “You’re not even in my grade. Why are you so obsessed with school? Are you in love with your teacher or something?”

“I’m not _obsessed,”_ Malcolm scoffed.

Ainsley flipped her book open with a flourish, rolling her eyes as she did so. “Well, you have zero friends and you never want to go anywhere. I’m just saying, it’s kinda weird.”

“Just do your work,” Malcolm hissed, tucking his things into his bag. When Ainsley did no such thing, he ran his hands through his hair and gripped it tight. “Ainsley!”

_“What?”_ Ainsley snapped.

“Will you just _do_ your _homework_?”

_“Fine!_ Jesus!” Ainsley slung her bag over one shoulder and swiped her books into her arms, storming upstairs. Malcolm got out of his chair, but didn’t follow her; rather, he crossed his arms over his chest, trying to keep the frustration from spilling over.

He failed. “Where are you going?” Malcolm demanded, anger seeping into his voice.

“Away from _you!”_ Ainsley called, her footsteps receding into her bedroom.

Malcolm growled through his teeth. “You can’t!” he shouted back. “You’ll get distracted, and—”

The door slammed shut.

Malcolm took the stairs two at a time, racing down the hall until he came to a stop outside Ainsley’s bedroom. “Ainsley, open up.” He tried the knob and it was locked. “Ainsley! Come on!”

He knocked on the door twice, then stepped back, waiting for Ainsley to open the door, but she didn’t—in fact, there was no sound coming from inside the room whatsoever.

Malcolm’s breath caught in his throat. “Ainsley, open the door. Please?” He made a fist and pounded again, harder. “Ainsley. _Ainsley!”_

Still, nothing. Malcolm tried the knob desperately, a hundred thoughts flooding into his head—why wasn’t she answering? What if he said something? What if she left? Where was she, and why wasn’t she speaking at all?

“Open— _Ainsley!”_

He hit the door with both fists, panic beginning to bubble in his chest, and when there was still no response, he took a step back and kicked at the knob, growing increasingly terrified when it didn’t break. He tried again, and the door didn’t budge at all. Giving up, Malcolm paced in a small circle outside the room, fists clenched and pounding repeatedly against his thighs—he could call someone, he could find something, like a hair pin, only no one was home—he dropped to his knees and peeked under the door.

The lock clicked.

Malcolm remained crouched where he was and lifted his head to see Ainsley, headphones in, glaring ferociously through the swimming in her eyes.

Fear.

“You’re a complete psychopath,” she whispered.

Malcolm spent the rest of the night with his back against the wall, staring at the light spilling into the hallway from underneath the locked door.

**_5._ **

“You can’t,” Malcolm mumbled, voice muffled by his pants.

Gil sighed, scrubbing a tired hand across his face. “I can’t have you working this case, Bright. I’m sorry.”

“But _why?”_ Malcolm begged, tucking his knees tighter against his chest.

_“Why?”_ Gil held out his hands, gesturing in exasperation. “I just saw you hold out a knife to one of the beat cops, threaten to kill him, and now you’re having a panic attack on the bathroom floor! How could I _not_ give you a break?”

Malcolm slammed his hands on the ground. “It was a _demonstration_.”

“Demonstration or not, it was _stupid_ and _dangerous_ ,” Gil shot back. “I can’t have you risking your safety over this killer. I can’t.”

“Why do you have to _protect_ me?” Malcolm hissed, tearing his gaze from the tile floor to glare at Gil. “I’ve had panic attacks for _years_. I’m _always_ risking my safety. And catching killers is how I _don't_ go insane!”

“I’m not protecting you!” Gil burst out, growing increasingly frustrated. “I’m protecting the team! I can’t have you waving a weapon around at people with _no_ regard for _anyone’s_ safety like a goddamn—”

His voice caught, and he closed his mouth, but Malcolm just nodded to himself, a sardonic grin spreading across his face.

“Say it,” he hissed through gritted teeth, looking straight ahead. “‘No regard for anyone’s safety like a goddamn’—” His voice broke, and he swallowed. “Like a goddamn psychopath.”

After a pause, Gil sighed, “You were out of line, Malcolm. And I’m not going to tolerate reckless behavior like that.” 

He started to sit down, but Malcolm just held up his hand to stop him. “I’m not working the case. Please go.”

Gil looked conflicted. “Kid, I didn’t mean—”

“Leave me alone!” Malcolm shouted, trying to ignore the way his broken voice bounced off the tile walls. “I don’t need you to sit here and coddle me, I’m _fine!_ Just _get out!”_

A long moment passed before Gil finally said, very quietly, “Okay,” before leaving.

The door closed, and Malcolm allowed himself a long, guttural growl before slamming his head back against the wall, again and again.

**_+1._ **

Only moments later, the door creaked open, but Malcolm didn’t raise his head. “Gil, just—”

“Not Gil,” Edrisa replied awkwardly, eyes squeezed shut. “Are there any men in here?”

Malcolm sighed, resting his throbbing head against the wall. “Just me.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Are your pants on?”

“Yes.”

Edrisa entered the bathroom with her hands stiff against her sides, a little too disgusted to touch anything. Malcolm couldn’t blame her. “I, um, was wondering what you thought of the vic.”

“I think nothing.” Malcolm tossed his hands up helplessly before letting them flop back to his legs, now cross-crossed on the tile floor. “I’m not on the case.”

“Why, because of the knife?” Edrisa scoffed. “I thought that was pretty epic. You look like you’re experienced.” The pained expression that flashed across Malcolm’s face made her change her mind. “On second thought, I never would have guessed. Um—I’m sorry. I should go.”

“Edrisa,” Malcolm called, before she could push the door open again.

Edrisa swallowed. “Yes?”

Malcolm chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Do you know who my father is?”

“...Yes.”

Malcolm frowned, toying with the tie that hung loose and limp around his neck. “It’s just...all this time, I’ve never—you never seemed to judge me. For anything. I, um, imagine I’m not easy to work with—”

“Because I think you’re amazing!” Edrisa blurted out.

Malcolm pursed his lips. “Thank you.”

“No, it’s—” Edrisa fidgeted with the preliminary ME file, looking anywhere but him. “You’re, like, so easy to talk to, and really smart, and just...so, so nice to me—to everyone. Easy on the eyes, too,” she added, very quietly. “Which, um...helps.”

Malcolm chuckled, but the pleasure didn’t last. “I can’t think of anything right now. It’s just...hard to concentrate when there’s so much going on.”

“In your head?” Edrisa clarified. Malcolm nodded. “Oh. What’s wrong?”

Malcolm just shrugged jerkily, a wry smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I’m—I’m just going crazy! Nothing you can do.”

Edrisa’s mouth twisted. “You’re not the craziest person I’ve met, Bright.”

Malcolm snorted. “Really?”

“Um, _totally.”_ The germs long forgotten, Edrisa got down to her knees next to him. “Do you know how many whack jobs are in the ME industry?”

Malcolm thought for a moment. “A lot, I bet.”

“Oh, my God, you have _no_ idea. There was this one guy who _dressed himself up_ —tuxedo and _all_ —just to spend time with the cadavers. Can you imagine?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Malcolm replied, furrowing his brow.

Edrisa’s laughs settled. “Believe me, Bright. Your daddy issues?” She reached over and gave him a playful—albeit awkward—punch on the shoulder. “At least they’re only because of your _dad_ , right? _Your_ brain is in one piece—more-or-less.”

“So you...don’t think I’m a complete psychopath?”

“Absolutely not,” Edrisa confirmed, before pausing. “Okay, maybe a little bit.” As Malcolm couldn’t help but laugh, she got to her feet, brushing herself off as she did so, then held out her arms. “Are you ready to catch a killer?”

“Gil took me off the case,” Malcolm pointed out, “I told you this.”

_“Gil,”_ Edrisa simpered, mischief tugging at her lips. “You know he’s gonna change his mind when you get up there and completely wow him with a stellar profile.”

Malcolm hesitated, but only for a moment, as he accepted the help and let Edrisa pull him to his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> A random little burst of “I want to write something for Edrisa” turned into this! I hoped you liked it, even if it’s short and a little weird, structure-wise.
> 
> And also, if you’re reading that series of mine, the next installment of Nothing Gold Can Stay is about 50% done. Woohoo! Sorry it’s taking so long!


End file.
